


This War of Mine

by Anicaruscomplex



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dark, F/M, Hate Sex, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 18:50:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3299993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anicaruscomplex/pseuds/Anicaruscomplex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wonders if he’ll apologise for forcing himself on her, or curse her for making him do it. She decides that she’d like either, as he would be admitting she held some sort of power over him either way. It’s frustrating when she realises he is just going to leave without saying anything at all.</p><p>“Is that all you’ve got, Chantry boy?”</p><p>His eyes flick from the floor to her face with the challenge. She bares her teeth and smiles, tilts her head back and exposes her neck to him as she settles herself to lounge more comfortably against the table. As if she is simply amused by his previous outburst, laughing at him while he runs away with his tail between his legs.</p><p>---</p><p>A collection of vaguely chronological oneshots about moments in time during the game's story. Expect a much darker, lyrium addicted Cullen and an Inquisitor out to seize glory for herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She woke in shackles.

She twisted her wrists desperately as she reached for magic that was locked away from her, face twisting grotesquely as she cursed at her unknown captors. What had gone wrong? She couldn’t remember, vague hints of memories slipping out of grasp as she desperately reached out for them, biting down on the panic that rose in her throat and made her heart pound in terror.

The conclave. She’d gone to the conclave, seeking protection for the few in her Circle that hadn’t yet been lured over to either side of the war. Maker take it, they’d only wanted to be left alone! They’d thought her noble blood would give her some degree of protection. If only they could see her now, on her knees, hands forced apart in front of her. She burned with the humiliation of the situation.

Had the templars done this to her? Little lost mage, wandering the wilds on her own. She smiled darkly as she recalled the last pair of templars she’d accidentally stumbled on. They’d seen her staff and attacked without hesitation, so she hadn’t felt any guilt about cleaning the blood from her robes later. Not that templars were the only possible culprit; given the descent into bestial, mindless slaughter by both sides, she couldn’t rule out another mage having done this to her. The reluctance of the Ostwick Circle to join the fight had led to more than a little bad blood.

Then the light flared at her wrist. The pain sent her spiralling back into unconsciousness.

\------

They told her she’d killed the Divine. They told her that she’d ripped a hole in the sky and summoned demons through. They told her that the world was ending and it was all her fault.

Was it? She couldn’t remember. The fact that it remained a possibility worried her; she doubted she’d have done it intentionally, but what if she’d made a mistake, somehow pierced the Veil and let the monsters through. The people were right to spit at her feet, she thought absently, as she trailed after the woman who’d introduced herself with a death threat. Pain spasmed through her as the mark on her hand burst into life once more, forcing her to double over in a desperate attempt to catch her breath.

Hands still bound in front of her, she feels like they are leading her like a lamb to a slaughter.

\------

Demons attack, and she manages to get her hands on a weapon while Cassandra is busy fending off another threat. She shivers as magic crackles through her and arcs out to set her opponent on fire, savouring the heady rush of power that seems all the sweeter for her brief captivity.

It’s over too soon though and Cassandra is turning to her, disapproval written clear across her face. Evelyn’s eyes narrow in response and her grip on her weapon tightens; even if she is to be sent to her death, she will not do it defenceless.

“Drop your weapon. Now.”

Evelyn paused for a moment, considering her options. Her tongue flicks out to swipe at her dry lips, wondering how long they’d had her locked up for.

“No.”

Cassandra stares at her but Evelyn refuses to break eye contact. She is of house Trevelyan, and a powerful mage in her own right. She does not back down.

Eventually Cassandra turns her back on Evelyn, a sharp noise of disgust escaping her. “Fine. Keep it. I cannot protect you out here.”

Evelyn glances up towards the sky, focuses on the sick green light that licks across the heavens. If she were their only (best? easiest?) hope of closing it, she doubts there would be much Cassandra could protect for long.

\------

It turns out she is capable of closing the rifts, though the agonising pain that burns through her body when she activates the mark on her hand makes her wonder if it’s really worth it. The world is already falling apart; the Chantry is crippled, the templars have slipped their leash and the mages are free to roam. The combat will push more than a few to become abominations, though it seems they don’t even have to be possessed by demons to lose their humanity. Maybe the world should be left to go to hell.

She doesn’t know why she continues to fight with Cassandra and the others they pick up. That there’s another mage surprises her, as she well knows the Chantry’s view on the use of magic and Cassandra does not strike her as a tolerant type. It’s clear that the rift in the sky has them running scared, grasping at any possible weapon for this impossible fight. If she survives this, she intends on running for the hills before they decide she is no longer essential.

She is surprised that they’d asked her opinion on what they should do next. She’d picked the mountain path; what did she care about the soldiers who would be killed to create the diversion? Chantry fanatics, all of them. The Chancellor’s treatment of her had reminded her too sharply of her own family, of their own piety and utter devotion to the Chantry. She’d been given over to the templars not even an hour after she’d manifested her powers for the first time.

Being allowed to make decisions appeals to her, as does their obvious dependence on her. She thinks Cassandra will sacrifice herself to save Evelyn if it comes to it – she half wishes it will, as she will not mourn her would-be keeper – and they are all careful to protect her, allowing her the opening she needs to seal off the next breach, and the next, battling through countless waves of horrors that appear from nowhere.

She considers escaping while they’re all distracted fighting, saving her own skin rather than continuing to risk it against this monsters, against the hole in the sky that she’s worried will swallow her whole. It’s a tempting idea, but she is not convinced she can fight through the monsters on her own.

She likes the idea of being a hero.

\------

The vision they see in the temple clears her guilt. Someone else had ripped open the fade, she’d just been an accidental bystander. Why she now had the mark, why she’d been the only one to survive, was still unknown, but at least it hadn’t been her fuck up. Probably.

She’d never seen a Pride demon outside the Fade before, and the bastard looks even bigger in the flesh. It laughs and bats them away like flies, finding their attentions amusing. She finds herself hard pressed to avoid the whip it cracks all around them, and curses when it catches her calf. She can feel the sharp burn of electricity as it sears the flesh there.

This was not how she planned on dying! She’d spent so long avoiding temptation in the Fade, resisting the glorious, seductive power that they’d dangled enticingly in front of her, and she balked at the idea that it had all been for nothing. She would not let some nameless demon rip her life from her.

Shoving past the soldier behind her, she turned her back on the demon and concentrated her attentions on the rift instead. The mark activates automatically, sending a stream of power up to rift above her, and Evelyn falls on her knees and screams defiance. She turns her head to see the demon hesitate, stunned by the backlash of power, and she realises they can kill it.

When it’s dead and they’re still alive – barely, Cassandra is bleeding heavily from a head wound, and Solas is leaning on his staff, exhausted – she finds herself the centre of attention once more. Maker be damned, she would not back down now. As her vision goes black, she finds solace in the idea that at least she’d be a martyr to the cause. That they’d still speak her name after she’d gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is mostly just to establish the Inquisitor's character, and let me get a feel for writing her. Next chapter will introduce my version of Cullen.
> 
> I'd love to hear what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

She sits on the stone wall and watches the troops practice.

She has to admit it’s a depressing sight, and she doesn’t even know how to use a sword. Green recruits fumble gracelessly with their weapons as they attempt to land a blow on an equally inept opponent, and she wonders why the Commander even bothers. He’s there in the centre of the storm, correcting forms and demonstrating proper techniques, but they fall apart as soon as he moves off to the next student. She sees now why he took the loss of the troops at the temple so hard, as even a few more experienced hands would make a huge difference to this untrained mob.

Most are youths dreaming of greatness, bored farm boys who’ve been caught up the in the Inquisition’s noble purpose. Some are fanatic pilgrims, willing to give their lives for the cause. Others, still, are here for her, because they truly believe her Andraste’s chosen. While the idea curls nicely around her vanity, she does not believe it herself, though she does not disillusion others of this belief either. She can see the near-worship on their faces when they think she’s not watching, and she knows they have faith that she can stop all of this. It’s obvious in the way they cede power to her, trusting her to make the right decisions, allowing her to reorganise their lives. For the most part, they’re happy to be used.

He is the only one who resists. Commander Cullen, the Inquisition’s military advisor, such as they had a military. In truth, Knight-Commander Cullen is a better fit, as the man is templar through and through. He’s hated everything about her since they were first introduced, and she takes no little pleasure in flaunting it in his face. She finds herself hating him in return, hating the way he wields honour and valour as weapons and cloaks his own desires in the cloth of righteous ideals. He remains civil enough during discussions at the war table, never quite lowering himself to insult her methods personally, but there are enough barbed comments, raised eyebrows and thinned lips that she knows he thinks he could have done better. She finds it satisfying when Josephine and Lelianna shut his protests down and side firmly with her.

His first problem with her is that she’s a mage. Given his templar background, this is not really surprising, though he’s not quite crying out for her head. He’s cordial to the handful of other mages they’ve collected at Haven; she presumes this is because most are meek, docile healers, collected where he could keep an eye on them. She, on the other hand, had free reign to wreak havoc on the battlefield, abusing her magic at will to call down the elements. She is a mage and she is out of his control, and it must drive him crazy.

The second is that he has to bite his tongue and take commands from a waifish girl nearly half his age. She has no experience of leading anyone, very little combat experience of any kind, and she’s mostly making it up as she goes along. She’d spent so much of her life sequestered in the Circle that the real world is still an alien, bizarre concept. It irritates him that, despite all of her faults, despite all of the cards being stacked against her, she still manages to come out victorious time and time again. Most of the time it is by the skin of her teeth, but Evelyn’s found that she draws people to her like a candle. Most, she knows, are attracted to the mark on her hand and the chance to save the world, but others come for more curious reasons. She is capable of being more than charming when she tries, bold and confident in her own allure. Leading is as natural as breathing, and she finds herself collecting a number of powerful companions as she attempts to widen the Inquisition’s influence. It’s slow going, and she is starting to become sick of playing the errand boy for every stranger they encounter, but the power of the Inquisition is growing day by day. She’s also getting stronger, and she likes how it feels. For the first time in her life, she feels important, and she will do whatever it takes to keep her place in the sun.

The third reason has less to do what they are and comes down to who they are. They are both too stubborn and inflexible, incapable of seeing beyond their own world view. They both like being in control, but the templar’s drawn the short straw and now has to play second fiddle, advisor to her Herald of Andraste. Check, and mate. He’s the honourable knight, doing whatever he can to save lives and help people. She does what she must, consequences be damned, takes the safest option and always looks out for her own skin. He is the Inquisition’s golden boy, placed on a pedestal so high that no mortal can reach it, and she hates how unworthy he makes her feel. It makes her sure that her position is not the Maker’s work, as the Commander is far more fitting to be Andraste’s champion.

She wonders, sometimes, if he hates her for making him question his faith, for making him half believe that she is sent by the Maker.

She refuses to let her insecurities show to anyone else, sweeping around Haven as if the title of Herald was a natural fit. She can’t deny that she likes the reverence that comes with it, and she takes advantage of it shamelessly to tumble one of the handsome new recruits. She makes sure that they’re seen stumbling through the door of the small cottage she’s been given as her personal quarters. It’s clear in the dark look that Cullen gives her the next day that he doesn’t appreciate her playing with his toys.

She laughs now as she catches the young man staring at her, his ears going pink as she holds his gaze, and watches him parry so badly that his weapon ends up on the floor. She can see Cullen turn at the noise, imagines him swearing, but then he spots her. She waves mockingly with her free hand and expects him to ignore her, but he turns towards her instead and marches over to her spot on the wall. He’s probably going to blame her for this as well.

“Herald. Was there something in particular you wanted, or did you just want to distract my soldiers?” He towers over her, but she has faced down far worse. His posture is easy, relaxed, and she wonders what has suddenly made him more comfortable in her presence.

It takes a moment to realise that his confidence is due to the sling on her arm. They’d managed to stumble across a dragon – a dragon! – in the Hinterlands while searching for some farmer’s lost druffalo, and despite the immediate retreat, none of her party had managed to avoid injury. She was lucky that she’d suffered nothing more than a dislocated shoulder and bad burns that had hurt like a bitch at the time. She was mostly healed, but she’d wanted another few days of rest before she returned to the field.

He didn’t know that though. All he saw was a damaged mage, fangs drawn and no threat to him. While she could use magic one-handed if necessary, even without a weapon, she knew that his templar abilities would give him the edge in a fight. The fact that he could beat her, no contest, ruins her temper, and she regrets coming out here to needle him.

“Commander. I thought I’d come out and see how the new recruits are getting on. I read your last report. You mentioned that you thought they had promise.”

It was his turn to scowl now, as he realised she was making fun of him. While some of the men might have talent, it would take years to forge them into a proper fighting force. Evelyn wonders if he ever regrets taking a post with the Inquisition. He’d managed to take control of Kirkwall following the destruction of the Chantry and the fall of the mage Circle, and had then given it up to help lead the Inquisition. It seemed rather a large step down.

“Yes, I’d heard that you were interested in getting to know my men.” Disapproval flicked quickly across his face, though he quickly covered it with studious neutrality. “Are you planning on remaining in Haven for long?”

Which was about as close to ‘fuck off and do your job’ as he’d get. She wanted to strip those manners away and make him say what he really meant.

“No. I’m returning to the Hinterlands tomorrow.” She waits a moment, allowing him to look forward to her absence, before dropping the other shoe. “The mages in Redcliffe have invited me to discuss an alliance. It would be rude to keep them waiting.”

He stiffens and she knows she’s won this round. He’d known about the invitation, but she’d not let him know that she planned on at least investigating it. He argues the case for seeking templar aid whenever they are all together at the war table, and she thinks he is going to launch back into convincing her to turn to them instead. He clearly thinks better of it, and she is disappointed. One on one like this, he would be admitting that she held all the power. It would have made it look like he was begging. He had clearly came to the same conclusion and simply nods at her, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing his frustration.

“I won’t keep you then. We both have a lot to get done before tomorrow.”

“Maker watch over you,” she mouths, mocking him, but he’s already out of earshot. Tilting her face to the sky, she enjoys the sun on her face for a few moments. Unfortunately, she does have a lot to get done before they set out tomorrow, and she has wasted enough time irritating the Commander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter Cullen, stage right.
> 
> Feedback loved. <3


	3. Chapter 3

It’s just them in the war room for once. Lelianna and Josephine are both busy; Lelianna is somewhere in the Storm Coast, and Josephine is dancing attendance on some important noble considering donating money and men to the Inquisition. Normally when they’re the only ones in Haven, they communicate almost entirely by messenger.

She’s been trying that for days. She sends requests and he denies every one of them, refusing to even consider her suggestions. She’d set the last refusal on fire, wishing she could do the same to him, and conscripted Mother Giselle into fetching him to the war room, claiming urgent business.

He’d responded to her summons, though he was clearly unhappy about it. They faced off against each other with the table dividing them, though it seemed like worlds separated them.

The Commander is in full armour. Evelyn decides it wouldn’t surprise her to find out that he slept in it, as she had never seen him dressed in anything else. In preparation, unwilling to feel like the templar had any advantage over her, she has dressed in full battle dress as well. It’s fitting, since this is far more challenging a fight than most she faces in the field. There’s a lot less metalwork involved in hers – only in vital places, chestplate, bracers, greaves – but the cloth of the garment hums with magic, spelled to resist damage. She knows his templar abilities will make him constantly aware of it and she hopes, spitefully, that it gives him a headache. To complete the picture she even has her staff strapped to her back and it makes her feel invincible.

Unfortunately, the Commander does not seem intimidated. He explains everything again, slowly, like she is a child, telling her why her ideas are unfeasible. Even with no audience he does not stoop to insults, keeping the words – if not their tone – entirely civil.

“But we need those watch towers! Master Dennet will not release the horses without them.” She’s already spent time scouting out suitable locations for them; she will not let her efforts go to waste.

“I will not waste time and resources constructing watch towers so a few farmers can feel safe! Find some other way to convince him, Herald.”

Evelyn slams her hands down on the table and hates herself for losing her temper in front of him. She is sacrificing everything – her time, her freedom, hell, probably even her life – to close the damn breach and he fights her at every turn.

She does not know how to convince him to change his mind. She is used to relying on Lelianna and Josephine to over-rule him, as it seems he respects both of them enough to comply with their wishes when he is clearly outnumbered. Without them here, he is free to dismiss her out of hand, refusing to even listen to her reasoning, and there is not a blasted thing she can do about it. It makes her feel powerless, and she hates it.

“What am I supposed to do, serrah? Lure him into my bed while his wife watches? String him up and torture him with magic until he begs to give in?”

If it had been desperate enough, she would have tried either.

She turns away from him and folds her arms across her chest, realising the futility of trying to make him see reason. She is unsure whether he delights in denying her or is just too inflexible to see beyond the end of his own nose.

She snorts, a sharp, disgusted noise, something she has picked up from Cassandra. “Fine. Let your soldiers rut in the fields while others sacrifice their lives for the cause.”

She moves to leave but his footsteps stop her. He is on her before she realises what is happening, bulk pinning her to the table, hands gripping her wrists to stop her from struggling. The force of his breastplate against hers crushes the breath from her lungs and she knows she’ll have bruises where his fingers are pushing into the fleshy underside of her wrists, but she will not give him the pleasure of seeing her squirm.

He crashes his lips against hers, harsh and messy. In retaliation she bites his lower lip, darkly satisfied when she tastes the metallic tang of blood on her tongue. He does not seem put off by the pain and forces his tongue into her mouth instead, battling for dominance, and she finds herself kissing back just as savagely. She is surprised to feel his erection jutting against her stomach; she’d thought him incapable of losing control like this. It is satisfying to know that he is as human as all of them under all that devout goodness.

He pulls back eventually and just watches her for a moment. His eyes are dark, ringed with the slightest halo of gold, and the blood smeared across his lips makes him look the part of some dangerous predator. Maker help her, she likes it. He licks the blood from round his mouth and then pushes himself away from her suddenly, as if she was something distasteful to be rid of.

She wonders if he’ll apologise for forcing himself on her, or curse her for making him do it. She decides that she’d like either, as he would be admitting she held some sort of power over him either way. It’s frustrating when she realises he is just going to leave without saying anything at all.

“Is that all you’ve got, Chantry boy?”

His eyes flick from the floor to her face with the challenge. She bares her teeth and smiles, tilts her head back and exposes her neck to him as she settles herself to lounge more comfortably against the table. As if she is simply amused by his previous outburst, laughing at him while he runs away with his tail between his legs.

He snarls and shoves her up against the table again. His hands go to the waistband of her trousers and rip the cloth apart, tearing them down to her thighs. One finger rubs her clit forcefully as his other hand unbuckles his belt and pulls his breeches down far enough to free his erection.

She tilts her hips against his hand, seeking more stimulation. The movement makes him stop touching her entirely and she bites back on the mewl that threatens to escape her. He’s got no right to be good at this.

His hands settle on the outside of her thighs instead as he positions himself against her entrance, pulling her legs up as he enters her in one smooth movement. He gives her precious little time to adjust to the intrusion before he’s pulling back out again and forcing himself back in, quickly settling into a sharp, brutal rhythm.

It’s all she can do to keep herself upright, hands splayed on the table behind her, elbows locked, as she arches her back and meets every thrust. There’s pain, but there’s pleasure too, and she feels herself start to climb towards orgasm. It all feels so deliciously forbidden, a taste of the fruit she’d considered impossible to reach.

He comes without warning, thrusting erratically as he reaches his peak. It’s as close as she’s seen him come to losing it, though his face is still irritatingly blank as he spills himself inside her. It makes her wonder what it’ll take to tear his barriers down completely, rip away everything he’s hiding behind and leave every thought and emotion bared for inspection. It’s a heady prospect, one that she desperately wants to make a reality.

Instead he pulls out and tucks himself back in his breeches, cool and distant, as if he wasn’t fucking her into the table a few moments ago. She’s left aroused and wanting as he leaves the room without a word, and for once she’s too off-balance to do anything but watch, mute. She burns with shame as her fingers slip into her folds and teases herself to orgasm, imagining it’s him instead, allowing herself a moment to imagine what his tongue would feel like. She’s close enough that it doesn’t take long.

Afterwards, she refuses to overthink it. She is not naïve enough to think that it will change anything about their working relationship, or that it will happen again. Once she gets over the disbelief, she finds herself nursing sharp resentment that he had simply taken what he wanted and then left her there, unsatisfied. It’s so at odds with the templar’s usually exemplar behaviour that she vaguely entertains ideas of demonic possession.

He continues to refuse her the watchtowers. She finds a religious cult squirreled away in the hills in the Hinterlands and they fall over themselves to do it for her instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tldr Cullen is not a gentleman.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible semi-crack!fic? Was inspired by [this](http://emedeme.deviantart.com/art/training-505991522) amazing comic strip. Seriously, check it out, it's amazing.

“Inquisitor! I hadn’t expected to see you on the training field so early.”

Evelyn turned at the noise, amusement making her lips twitch as she tried to keep a straight face in front of Cassandra.

“Oh, I just wanted to see how the men were doing. Haven, everything that’s happened, it’s nice to see that things are going back to normal.” Their forces were growing by the day, hardly comparable to the handful of templars and farm boys the Inquisition had boasted when it was first founded.

“The Iron Bull seems to be settling in well too,” she added, unable to resist, eliciting a snort from Dorian.

Cassandra frowned and looked more closely at Evelyn, finally noticing the Tevinter mage stood on the other side of her. For a moment she looked puzzled, unsure what business the two mages could have with the warriors, but it doesn’t take long for understanding to creep across her face and shift her expression to disapproval.

“Right. I wouldn’t want to interrupt such important Inquisition business. By your leave, Inquisitor, Dorian.”

Cassandra moved off to start on her own morning regime, leaving Evelyn alone with Dorian. She glanced sideways at the man behind her and couldn’t help the choked half-laugh that escaped as Dorian waggled his eyebrows at her.

The real reason for their early morning appearance strutted around the fenced off circle in the middle of the training field as he faced off against a pair of his Chargers. She marvelled at the ease with which he swung the two-handed axe he favoured and, going by Dorian’s expression, she wasn’t the only one who enjoyed the display of strength.

“I think his arm’s wider than my waist,” she murmured appreciatively to him. “Though I might need a little practical demonstration to be certain.”

She was so engrossed in the show that she didn’t hear anyone approaching, so the polite cough behind her made her jump. Reluctantly dragging her eyes away from the Qunari, she turned to look at the intruder and found herself face to face with the Commander.

“Inquisitor. If you’ve got a free moment, I have some documents that need your approval.”

Of course he did. He took pains to avoid her company when he didn’t need anything from her, so she rarely saw him without a pile of reports he needed her to sign off on. She gave him a tight lipped smile as she accepted the documents from him, good mood vanishing as she started to scan through the text. She suspected that the dry, long-winded reports were just one of the myriad ways he protested having to answer to her.

“I saw him bench press Krem once. While he was wearing full plate armour.”

Was Dorian trying to distract her, or irritate the Commander? Her money would be on both, though Dorian’s face was carefully blank when she chanced a glance up at him.

She scrawled her signature across the bottom of the forms as the Commander waited woodenly next to her. Despite having spent months living and working together, their relationship was no less formal than the day that they’d met. Possibly worse; when the Commander had found out about her alliance with the mages, he’d lost his temper entirely and had actually shouted at her while Lelianna and Josephine were watching. Since then he’d been frostily polite, though his dislike of her was no secret around Skyhold.

“There, Commander. Was that all you needed?”

\----

“Is this going to become a regular thing? I do need my beauty sleep, you know, it isn’t easy to always look this good.”

“You didn’t have to come with me. Feel free to go back to bed, I’m sure you won’t mind missing it that much.”

“I’m awake now, there’s no point. Besides, who knows what bad decisions you’ll end up making without someone to restrain you?”

Evelyn smirked and poached one of the pastries from the basket. She’d asked the cooks last night to prepare a breakfast she could take with her, supposedly to eat while she worked, and they’d outdone themselves with a colourful mix of Orlesian viennoiseries. The sweet little delicacies were the perfect accompaniment as she satisfied quite another type of hunger.

“Is that the Commander?” Evelyn frowned, eyes tracking the irritating templar as he stalked across to say something to the Bull. Having heard part of their discussion yesterday, was he attempting to ruin the show this morning?

“I think our dear Commander is challenging him to a fight! Look, they’re getting all territorial.”

 It seemed unlikely, but she had to admit Dorian was right; the pair of warriors did look to be sizing each other up. Evelyn’s eyebrows raised as she considered the implication of the match. Iron Bull seemed the likely victor, as the man was a formidable warrior and the Commander had been trained to face off against mages, not huge Qunari wielding greataxes. Templar abilities would not help him at all here. Still, a defeat by a mercenary captain would be an embarrassing loss for the Inquisition’s military commander, and she wondered what had prompted him to make the challenge in the first place.

“It seems a little unfair. The Commander’s wearing half the smithy, and Iron Bull’s got most of a tent and a belt.” Not that she was complaining about the Qunari’s lack of clothing.

“If only he’d remove that armour.” She shot Dorian a look at that, and he held his hands up in mock defence. “What, I know you don’t like him, but you have to admit he’s pleasing to the eye. Aren’t you even a little curious what he’s packing under there?”

She was, and that was the problem. Despite the easy friendship she’d struck up with Dorian, she had no intention of ever telling him about her more personal encounter with the Commander. Even if she did, she doubted he’d believe her.

“I’m not sure it comes off,” she returns instead, eyes fixed on the spectacle below. “I’m pretty sure he was born with it on, plus the rod up his arse.”

While she enjoys watching the two men try to pummel each other, she is disappointed when the fight ends in a draw, especially as she suspected it was a tactical decision on the Bull’s part. Cullen was breathing heavily and was noticeably pink around the edges, though he smiled when the Qunari extended a hand to shake.

“Maker, they’re bonding over hitting each other,” she complained, irritated that the Bull seemed to approve of their esteemed military leader. “I will never understand warriors.”

“Better than blood magic and orgies, no?”

Dorian’s tone was light, but Evelyn knew the words were anything but. She’d heard the rumours – it was impossible not to, especially when people spouted their suspicions right to her face – and she knew that most believed the Tevinter to be an evil blood mage, sent to corrupt their precious Herald. Never mind that she was a mage herself, or that Dorian had sacrificed everything to help them. Even Vivianne had labelled him a threat.

“I’d prefer blood magic and orgies with you any day,” she promised, mostly to see him smile. “We Circle mages did have to fill all that time doing something, after all.”


	5. Chapter 5

“I’m not wearing this.”

Her three advisors regarded her with cool, assessing eyes; while they might squabble like children over certain decisions, each was more than capable of analysing a situation and forming a reasoned, though usually different, opinion.

Right now, that situation was the dress they’d chosen for her to wear to the ball at the Winter Palace. Given it was only a week away, she’d had a dress fitting that morning to make any last minute alterations, though it had only taken a single glance in the mirror to convince her that it was out of the question.

“We’re going to stop an assassination! How am I supposed to stop anything wearing this?”

With the heels they’d given her, even walking quickly had proved to be a nightmare, and she’d nearly stumbled down the stairs as she’d attempted to get from her quarters to the war room.

Oh, she could see what they’d been aiming for. In complete contradiction to current Orlesian fashion, the dress was made entirely from white silk, laced up the back with buttery, pale gold ribbons. The dragonbone corset they’d prised her into underneath made her waist elfishly small and pushed her meagre breasts up into an illusion of fullness, which was taken advantage of by the daring neckline of the dress. From her waist the dress flared out, supported by hundreds of ringed petticoats, which swung disconcertingly around her legs whenever she took a step. It was a miracle she’d managed to avoid getting a shoe stuck in the netting.

A single sash of blood red fabric had been tied around her waist, and they’d added a gold Chantry necklace to complete her outfit. The sun nestled snugly on her manufactured bosom and winked up at her, irritating in its implied piety.

She’d been so caught up in wearing something pretty for once, something that definitely wasn’t designed with blood stains and heavy combat in mind, that she’d been half swept away by the seamstress’s clear delight over the outfit. They’d brushed her hair out and let it flow free down her shoulders, the red curls nearly a perfect match for the belt round her waist, It had been so long since she’d had occasion to do something with her hair that wasn’t practical that she’d been giddily anticipating the admiring looks and comments she’d receive. She hadn’t realised what the effect would be until she’d caught sight of herself in the mirror.

They’d made her look like bloody Andraste. All she needed was a flaming sword.

She regretted that for a moment, she’d been tempted to go along with it anyway. What was a little more worship? It was easy to transition between the Herald of Andraste to Andraste’s avatar, soul reborn to aid Thedas with this new disaster. Even the Chantry was beginning to fall in line now, abandoned by the templars, and more than a few saw her as their religious saviour. She’d heard more than one cleric put her name forward for the empty position of Divine.

But she was no Chantry symbol. She was Evelyn Trevelyan, apostate mage and Inquisitor. It was the Chantry who had advocated for her to be locked up in a tower her entire life, and it was the Chantry who had wanted her head on a stick after she’d fallen through the rift with the Divine dead at her feet. She owed them nothing, and she would not be their puppet.

“You are there to seek political allies, Inquisitor, not to wage war on the ballroom floor. Lelianna’s agents will make sure that we are all safe there, Empress Celene included. We cannot ignore how important this event will be in convincing more parties to join our cause.”

Unsurprisingly, it was Josephine who spoke up in defence of the outfit first. While Evelyn could see the logic in her words, it was not enough to sway her opinion on the dress.

“I go representing the Inquisition! Let them see something that reminds them of our military strength, not our links to a failing Chantry.”

“She’s right,” Lelianna interjected, to Evelyn’s surprise. “This is too broad a stroke for the Game. We need to take a more subtle approach, or we risk being dismissed entirely as fools.”

She let Lelianna and Josephine argue over it and watched the Commander instead. She’d not though he would have much to add to the conversation, as it was entirely unrelated to troop movements, but the way he kept trying to steal a glance at her was intriguing. Normally he tried his best to ignore her presence, staring over her shoulder even when reporting directly to her.

Evelyn wondered what had caused the change. Was it the dress itself? The swell of her breasts were on display, and it was possible that suddenly revealing flesh normally hidden under high necked shirts and half jackets had aroused his curiosity. Possible, but it seemed unlikely. There were plenty of women who went around attired in a similar way around Skyhold, and the Commander did not openly stare at any of them.

No, she suspected the cause was her artfully designed resemblance to the statue of Andraste in Skyhold’s Chantry. The Commander was known to spend hours each morning on his knees in front of that marble form. The image of him on his knees in front of her instead sent a delicious spike of pleasure through her, and she imagined him making his absolutions in her name instead.

Lelianna and Josephine were still engrossed in their argument, raised voices and deft hand movements underlining each point. She used their distraction to move closer to the Commander, edging round the war table until there were only a few hand spans between them. His jaw tensed, but he remained still.

“Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide.” Her words were feather-light, half-whispered, meant for his ears only. She watched in satisfaction as he swallowed heavily and stared straight ahead.

“I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade.”

His hand curled tightly across the pommel of his sword, as if gripping the weapon would give him the strength to ignore her.

“For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker’s Light.”

This time his eyes flicked to her face, and she marvelled in the desperate hunger that she saw there. He wanted this to be real, wanted it to enough to ignore that he knew who she really was, and she could almost taste the plea on his lips as he exhaled sharply.

“And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.”


	6. Chapter 6

“We will have something else designed.”

Lelianna’s voice ripped her from her consideration of the Commander, and she tilted her head down in recognition, pretending she wasn’t aware of how his eyes followed her as she put some distance back between them. “Thank you,” she murmured, honestly grateful.

“Right. I shall confer with Madame de Fer and see if she has any suggestions.”

Eminently practical, Josephine had already abandoned her defence of Evelyn’s current dress, and likely already had a number of other options in mind. It meant more time wasted for fittings and consultations, but she refused to be such an obvious Chantry puppet. They needed her far more than she needed them.

“If that’s all?”

“For now. There’s not much we can do until we discover more about this assassination plot.” Irritation shot through her at the thought of being so helpless, but a quick glance at the Templar beside her softened it a little, amused to see him still struggling to control himself. “I’m sure we’ve all got plenty to be getting on with.”

“Indeed.” Josephine smiled, and Evelyn wondered how she managed to remain so positive even after being overruled. “Until later, then.”

The quick, assessing look Lelianna threw her suggested that she’d seen more of Evelyn’s little game than intended, but she left the room without saying a word about it. Josephine followed, but the Commander remained, clearly hoping that Evelyn would leave first. When she made a point of lingering, he scowled and pushed past her.

“Commander.” She touched her fingers delicately to the edge of his pauldron and smiled brightly up at him. “Could you spare me a few minutes of your time? I wanted your advice on how to approach the Fallow Mire situation.”

He nods once, sharply. This time she leads him through Skyhold as she throws up ideas, surprised how civil he is when they aren’t at loggerheads. He wants the soldiers freed as much as she does, and he is too chivalrous to put his own ego before the safety of his men.

She guides him through the gardens, careful to keep the conversation absorbing enough to keep him from paying attention to his surroundings. It isn’t until they are inside the small Chantry that he realises the motivation behind her destination, and his lips press into a thin, hard line of disapproval. It just focuses her attention on the scar cutting across them, though she drags her eyes away with reluctance. If she wants to rekindle the hints of reverence he’d shown earlier, she does not have time to be distracted.

“Inquisitor. If you would excuse me, I need to return to my duties.” He carefully kept his eyes averted as he turned to leave.

Instead of a response, she swept her elbow across the base of the statue, knocking the heavy silver candlesticks to the floor. The unexpected noise made him look back reflexively, and she sees the breath shudder out of him as he takes her in. Shadowed by the oversized icon of Andraste, given a golden halo by the few remaining candles behind her, he is lost at the sight of her.

This time, she will be not left wanting as he takes his pleasure and leaves.

His lips move helplessly, attempts at words she cannot make out. Instead she goes to him, all softness and light, and presses a hand to his cheek with feigned affection. Something in him breaks and he allows her the gesture, but doesn’t move until she presses her lips to his, close-lipped and chaste.

He pushes her backwards, sweeping the remaining items off the lip of the statue, and suckles at the tender skin between shoulder and neck as his fingers flex helplessly in the fabric of the bodice. Half-seated on the statue, she appreciates the sight of him before her, revelling in the power of being above him. This, she thinks, is where he belongs, head bowed as he worships her body.

His head moved lower until he mouths kisses at the exposed swell of her breasts, though any further exploration is made impossible by the restriction of the corset. She allows herself to be pulled forward as he grasps at the laces, tugging them roughly until the material finally parts. Goosebumps race up her arms as he pushes the shoulder straps down, dragging the silky material against her bare skin. Despite everything, he is careful about it, and the contrast between this time and the last makes her smug with satisfaction.

Finally freed, the top half of her dress fell forward to pool at her waist, leaving her only in the ivory corset. His breath caught as he slid his hands down the sides of it and she revels in the pleasure his admiration brings.

He reaches behind her again to start the more difficult job of unlacing the corset, but what little patience she has is almost spent. She pulls his hands away as she mouths the word to a spell, and the rest of her clothing disappears in a sharp flash of light.

The display of magic is enough to make him remember himself and pull back, until she tugs him forwards, arching her back to display her freed breasts to best advantage. She’d left the necklace on, and the golden sun winks brightly at him.

For a moment she is worried it won’t be enough. If he leaves her here, now, naked and rejected, she is not sure she will survive the embarrassment. It’s a gamble, but she manages to keep herself still, eyes meeting his with defiant allure, and waits for him to make his choice. She is a far cry now from the stern, modest statue above her, red curls tumbling freely down her shoulders to half cover her nipples.

She is surprised when he pushes her backwards again, kissing her mouth firmly as his hands cup her breasts, thumb brushing roughly against her peaked nipples. He squeezes and kneads, exploring, and she shivers as the metal pieces of his armour press into her bare flesh.

She lets him do as he wishes for a few moments more before coiling a hand in his golden curls, pushing his head downwards with unspoken instruction. He understands her desire and doesn’t fight against it, dropping to his knees with grace as his fingers tighten on her hips.

The sight of him on his knees before her, for her, sends sparks of electric pleasure through her.

The kisses he presses to the inside of her thighs tickle and it takes all her concentration not to squirm as he works his way upwards. He releases the grip on her thighs to part her folds with one hand as he strokes her with the other, circling her clit with practiced ease, making her gasp and tighten her grip on the fur at his shoulders.

He pulls his fingers back and meets her eyes as time stops for a second, before he replaces his hands with his mouth.

He is, she decides, far too good at this. The thought takes the edge off the pleasure as uncertainty creeps in, confidence melting away as he proves himself better at this game than she’d have ever guessed. For a moment she thinks about pulling away, but she is reluctant to stop it. He flicks his tongue artfully and she mouths a prayer to a Maker she doesn’t believe in, tilting her hips desperately to try and make him give her more.

He obliges, and it isn’t long before she can feel her orgasm burning up her throat, calves tense as she struggles to support her own weight. She throws her head back and forgets how she’d planned to pretend nonchalance, and cries out as she comes.

The Commander sits back on his heels, tongue flicking out to lick at the corner of his lips. His eyes, as he watches her, are molten gold, and she decides his venerations were acceptable.

He is still fully dressed, but naked and sated, she towers above him, drunk on the power of it. His face is blank, difficult to read, but she doesn’t care; he has served his purpose.

He stood, still watching her with a strange expression, but she just stretches her arms up behind her and sprawls against the cold stone behind her, pretending total confidence in herself.

For a moment, it looks like he’s about to speak, but in the end he just nods and leaves.

After he’s gone, she shivers and wraps her arms around her chest, and wonders just how she is going to get back across the fortress without anything to wear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was reading through this the other day, and realised I'd never written the promised smut for the previous chapter. 
> 
> Here it is! I had a lot of fun writing it, and I'd forgotten how much I love this pairing.
> 
> edit: [quick sketch](https://40.media.tumblr.com/c0fc33a4f66e7fdd16a540eb6037125c/tumblr_nxs3phzUpr1unqgqgo1_540.png) inspired by this scene. NSFW (though only nipples).


	7. Chapter 7

It was snowing.

Fat, languid flakes drifted through the air in drunken spirals, landing with a whisper on the cold stone battlements of Skyhold. Most of Skyhold’s fires had been extinguished hours ago, as even the tavern was closed by now, but her magelight illuminated the space around her with a warmth that pushed the darkness back, if only a little.

She shivered, and wrapped her cloak tighter around her body, fingers digging into her sides as they sought the warmth hiding there. She regretted not dressing more warmly before leaving her quarters, but she had been so desperate to escape that she hadn’t even considered dressing herself in other layers. Boots and a fur-lined cloak had been about as much as she could manage, trapped in the foggy, claustrophobic panic that accompanied her nightmares with increasing frequency. It felt like it had been weeks since she’d slept properly, and she’d begun to retreat into the armour of Inquisitor more and more, . Decisions became about the numbers, not the lives lost, and her short temper and single-minded focus had started to create rifts with her companions. She could see the chasms opening with each word she spoke, but was unable to help it, too caught in the grand scheme of things to predict the multitude of little hurts her actions would cause.

Her breath shuddered out and hung, crystallised, in the air. The door of the tower next to her opened, then shut, and someone moved to stand behind her. The Commander, she thought, though she took her cue from his silence and held her tongue. She didn’t want to fight; she had come out here seeking solace, and she wasn’t sure she had the strength to conjure up the animosity that turned their normal encounters to thinly veiled warfare.

In the darkness, it was easy enough to pretend he was just another figment of her imagination, like the demons that clutched at her each time she closed her eyes. She concentrated on slowing her breathing instead, fighting to rebalance herself and give her the ability to get through another day. Blackwall – Rainier now, she had to remember – waited in Skyhold’s dungeons, and she was expected to sit in judgement soon after the sun rose, in a handful of hours. Each option presented to her brought its own host of problems, and she still hadn’t decided what to do. Another impossibility asked of her.

She’d almost forgotten about the templar’s presence when he moved, settling himself snugly at her back so that their bodies touched, cloth against plate, thigh against thigh. After another few heartbeats, he wrapped his arms around her elbows, cradling her arms against her chest. It made her tense, before she closed her eyes and accepted it, leaning back against the warm body behind her.

They both had their demons to fight. Here, in this stolen moment, it felt natural to lay down her weapons and just breathe, the solid plate under her head providing a strength she hadn’t realised she needed, hadn’t thought to seek from someone else rather than attempting to muster it herself. For the first time in weeks, she could relax, without feeling she was balancing on a knife’s edge, bloody from the effort. It was, she thought, ironic, that she was a mage and seeking refuge in a templar’s arms.

She couldn’t say how long they stood there, frozen in the moment as the faint blush of dawn crept across the horizon, chasing away the few remaining clouds. She hadn’t even realised it had stopped snowing, or that the last few flakes had melted from her hair, the damp causing it to curl madly around her face.

The unmistakeable sound of Skyhold waking up clattered across the courtyard as half-asleep residents tore themselves from their beds, ready to start preparing breakfast or finish some crucial task. It brought her back to herself, and reminded her that she didn’t have the luxury to waste time here, when there were so many other things requiring her attention. She had come seeking peace and had, surprisingly, found it.

“Thank you, Cullen,” she murmured, and this time it was his turn to stiffen at the sound of his name. She regretted it as soon as the name passed her lips, felt like she’d somehow lost by transforming him from the stylised idea of the Commander to something real.

For a moment, she thought he wasn’t going to reply. His arms tightened around her before he released her, and by the time she turned, he had composed himself, face shuttered and any warmth hidden behind the perfect image of the Commander.

“I hope we both sleep better tonight.” Aware of the curious eyes, he stepped away from her, putting the normal distance back between them. “Evelyn. Inquisitor.”

Like the fragments of her nightmare, this was yet another thing that she would have to leave to the dark. She collected the abandoned pieces of her armour around her and put the Inquisitor back together, hiding any traces of the frightened girl behind the image of herself she saw reflected in every fanatical soldier’s eyes.

Andraste’s chosen had no time for weakness, or need for comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to play with a hint of soft romance and a broken Inquisitor.


End file.
